“I don’t like ther outlook, Buffler,” said Nomad, with a gruesome shake of his shaggy head. “Ther kid ’u’d tork, only he hates ter gloom us up.”
“There are times, old pard,” said the scout, “when you seem to be shy even an average amount of horse-sense. If you continue to talk and act as though you were locoed, I won’t take you to the mine at all, but will leave you in Sun Dance.”
Nomad, at that, pulled himself together and tried to look as though he wasn’t in the least apprehensive.
“And the same with Little Cayuse,” continued the scout, turning to the Piute. “You’ve got to stop this foolishness. Buffalo Bill’s pards ought to be level-headed, and not go off the jump every time they hear or see something they can’t understand. We’re out after Lawless, just remember that, and certainly we’re sharp enough to match our wits against his. If we’re not, then Lawless and his gang may win out against us, and welcome.”
Cayuse shut his teeth hard and walked on ahead. Nomad, in a feeble attempt to dispel his fears, began to whistle softly.
As they came within sight of the Lucky Strike Hotel, they saw three men grouped about the door. One of the men was the fat proprietor, Spangler, and the other two were Hank Tenny and Lonesome Pete.
“What’s that outfit looking at?” queried Wild Bill.
“Something on the door,” returned Dauntless Dell. “They appear to be excited.”
“Must be somethin’ mighty important,” put in Nomad, “ter drag thet fat boy out o’ his two chairs. Spang never moves from them chairs except ter foller ther shade, er eat his meals, er go ter bed. But somethin’s got him goin’ now, thet’s shore.”
“What’s the matter?” called the scout, when he and his pards came close to the front of the hotel.